


Ain't That a Kick in the Head

by HeatherAster



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, November Flash Fic Challenge, The Rat Pack, vegas baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27448027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherAster/pseuds/HeatherAster
Summary: A socialite peanut heiress and an FBI agent go undercover in the den of the Rat Pack to find evidence implicating the Mob, and pull the wool over Ol' Blue Eyes.+++For the Flashfic Challenge, Heat 4Vegas AU, with the words: jail, absolute, union+++First Time Flash-Ficcer, Go easy!+++
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37
Collections: Miss Fisher's Flashfic Challenge Flash Free





	Ain't That a Kick in the Head

“Here, Jack, hold my drink,” Phryne said as she climbed onto the overstuffed chair. She’d taken off her heels so as not to puncture the rich leather.

“I can’t hold your drink AND you at the same time,” Jack complained, putting their drinks down on a side table and put both hands on her hips to steady her. His undercover mission to investigate the Mob in Vegas had brought him into the acquaintance of a wealthy socialite with an entree into the Rat Pack and a willingness to bring down said Mob. He’d found himself rubbing elbows with the glittering crowd that followed Frank, Dean, Sammy, Peter and Joey wherever they went. Next thing he knew, he and Miss Phryne Fisher, heiress to the Fisher Nuts fortune, were skulking around the private lodgings of the one and only Frank Sinatra - a two-story penthouse suite at Caesar's Palace.

“You’d think if someone was going to hide a safe behind a painting, they wouldn’t put it up so high they’d have to stand on a chair to reach it,” she observed, the sequins on her gold mini-dress swishing as she moved. 

“Maybe they were trying to protect it from drunk socialites with safecracking abilities,” Jack replied, trying mightily not to gaze too longingly at her thighs. He’d only known her for a few days, and she was already filling his thoughts with far more than was proper for an FBI agent on a case. 

“I’m not drunk, just pleasantly tipsy,” she said, then promptly fell back into Jack’s arms.

“Hello, Agent Robinson,” she simpered after he’d regained his footing, both arms wrapped tightly around her.

“Hello, Miss Fisher,” he smiled, their faces barely inches apart. “Are you finished with your criminal escapades this evening?”

“Only if you don’t want that evidence,” she said, extricating herself from his embrace and climbing up the chair again. “You know you’re never going to get a warrant for Mr. Sinatra’s safe. He’s got the cops in this town all tied up in a neat little bow.”

“You mean the cops that will have no problem whatsoever with tossing the both of us in jail if we’re caught?” he said, glancing back at the door. Mr. Sinatra’s private quarters were large and filled with deep pile carpeting, making it nearly impossible to hear someone coming. But they had left in the middle of the party, where Sinatra, and the others were holding court for friends and hangers on. Hopefully they wouldn’t be missed for long enough to accomplish their undercover mission. 

“Hand me a glass, Jack,” she said. She had finally positioned herself with her ear to the door of the safe, and was turning the dial, unsuccessfully. He handed her back the crystal whiskey glass she’d just a moment ago asked him to hold. “An empty glass,” she rolled her eyes, pondered the glass for a brief moment, then swigged down the remaining whiskey. “Ah, that’ll do.” She turned back to the safe, placing the glass between the door and her ear. 

“Mr. Sinatra, is that you?” came a female voice from the hall.

“Quick, Jack!” Phryne hopped off the chair into his arms. “Pretend you’re Frank!”

“What?” Jack barely got the word out before Phryne’s mouth was on his and she was placing his hands on her derriere and wrapping a leg around him. His body lit up like the finale of a fireworks show as every nerve ending exploded from her touch, her kiss, her closeness. In an instant, his body betrayed his mind and he was kissing her back, stroking her thigh and pressing her against him. The union of their mouths, tongues tangling from the adrenaline rush, was making him dizzy.

“Oh! Mr. Sinatra!” said the voice. “I was going to clean up before you returned, but you’re early.”

“No need,” Jack mumbled, as Phryne moved his head so his mouth was on her neck, his face hidden from the woman. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the woman said. 

“I think she’s gone now,” Phryne said after a few minutes, lowering her leg but locking eyes with him. “It was just the maid,” she said quietly, by way of explanation, but Jack didn’t care. At that moment, he didn’t even care about the mission or the evidence. But he needed to.

“Better try one more time before she goes downstairs and sees the Real Frank Sinatra at the party,” he said, reluctantly removing his hands from around her. 

“Yes,” she breathed. “One more time.” They both worked quickly and efficiently together, as if they both heard an invisible clock ticking down the seconds until they were caught - again. The safe was easy enough to open, and she used Jack’s handkerchief to take out documents until they found what they were looking for - a small ledger noting names and payments for various illegal activities. 

“Here, let me hide it,” Phryne said. She was still standing on the chair when she lifted her dress to reveal a sturdy girdle that rose above her waist and tucked the book into it. “They’ll never look here,” she grinned. Jack could only “look there”, while at the same time being embarrassed by her unabashed actions and impressed by her clever thinking.

“I’ll have to remember to add girdles to my repertoire when searching female suspects,” he said, recovering his wits. “Spread the word among your female co-conspirators: your secret’s out.”

“I have many more secrets to share, Jack,” she said, straightening her dress and shutting the safe, giving the dial a spin.

“And what sort of secrets are those, Miss Fisher?”

“Frank!” she brightened, then wobbled into Jack’s arms with a yelp. “Play drunk!” she whispered into Jack’s ear then giggled like a schoolgirl. Between the whiskey and the adrenaline and the headdy closeness of Miss Fisher, Jack didn’t need to pretend very much.

“What are you two doing in here?” Frank asked, sauntering over. 

“We were making out and wanted some music,” Phryne tittered. “But your radio is broken.” She waved her hand at the safe and hiccuped. “I turned the dial all the way ‘round and not a single note came out.”

Frank looked at the two empty glasses on the table then back at the intruders in front of him. “That’s a safe,” he said, swinging the painting closed over it. “How drunk are you?”

“Not very,” Jack offered, faking a wobble and burp and letting his jaw go slack. 

“Uh-huh.” Frank gave them a hard glare, then shook his head and laughed. “Look, if you two wanna get it on, go downstairs and get a room, alright?” 

“Ooo, that’s a good idea,” Phryne cooed then turned her mouth to Jack’s ear. “Whaddaya say, Jack? Let’s get a room.”

“Maybe I should just get you home,” Jack offered. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Frank said. “Here.” He took out his wallet and handed Jack a business card. “Take that to the front desk and they’ll set you up nice. And don’t worry about your stick-in-the-mud pop finding out about your extracurricular activities, Miss Fisher. You have my absolute discretion.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Phryne said.

“Thank you, Mr. Sinatra,” Jack added. 

“Now get outta here,” Frank said. “Have a fun night.”

Jack and Phryne hustled out of the suite and made haste for the elevators. “Oh, my god, I can’t believe we did that,” he panted when they were behind the steel doors and going down.

“Did what? Steal the book or make out,” she breathed, leaning into him.

“Miss Fisher,” he cautioned. 

“Oh, don’t be a killjoy with that ‘line of duty’ nonsense,” she pouted. “Let’s get that room.” 

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you,” he said, allowing his arm to settle on her waist. 

“No, I don’t. How often are you going to be offered a free room at Caesar's Palace by Frank Sinatra? And remember, Jack: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

“Is that so?” 

“That’s what they say, anyway,” she grinned and he kissed her.


End file.
